Formations
by DarkBeta
Summary: The Rat Patrol and Dietrich find something unexpected in the temple of Bucephalas. Warning: unfinished.
1. Chapter 1

"Sandstorm. Moving fast," Moffitt shouted back. "Follow me."

Tully gunned their jeep, moving at reckless speed.

"Shake it!" Troy told Hitch, and braced himself to check the rear.

For a moment the desert looked still and empty. He saw a dark line across the horizon. It was wide, terribly wide. They couldn't get out of its path, and the jeeps couldn't outrace the wind. The Rat Patrol needed shelter if they were going to survive.

If anyone could find a place for them to outwait the storm, Moffitt would. Troy threw necessities into a couple of packs. Water first -- the jugs from the back of the jeep as well as personal canteens -- and ration bars, and goggles.

Hitch had the jeep at full throttle, briefly air-born at every ripple of the desert floor. Ahead of them Troy saw a rock outcropping. A cave or narrow gully might be enough to save their lives. It might not.

The lead jeep swung about, throwing a fan of sand. Before it was stopped Moffitt leapt for the base of the rock. He climbed, working his way up the side of the outcropping. Off the ground he was an even better target for the wind, until he climbed into a square of black that Troy had taken for shadow.

It had to be a doorway to some chamber in the living rock, probably an emptied tomb. Tully threw a coil of rope up and started the climb himself.

The wind was on them, making the jeep judder randomly. When he looked back the sandstorm loomed as solid as a wall against the blue sky.

"Sarge!" Hitch cried.

The wall fell on them.

They lost the jeep almost at once, as wind and darkness conspired against Hitch's skill. Spilled out onto the desert, Troy groped his way to Hitch and dragged him to his feet.

"Move!"

He didn't know if the boy heard him, since the wind howled so loudly. They stumbled forward, guided only by the buffeting at their backs. In only a few steps it seemed as if they'd been stumbling forever. They'd missed the outcrop, and were leaving their only shelter farther and farther behind.

He walked into the sheer stone. Did they turn left or right? The door in the wall had been far above his reach. The chance of finding it in this black howling was slim.

Troy went right, groping along the wall. His hands rubbed strange curves. Had the desert winds shaped them, or were ancient sculptures weathering back to formlessness?

Wind held the curve of the rope rigid. It was something identifiable in the chaos, and he clutched it for no better reason. After a moment he remembered they needed to climb. He pulled Hitch's hand to it and clouted his shoulder.

He was alone in the storm. When he began to climb it tore at him. Twice, terrifyingly, it swung him out from the rock, hanging him in emptiness. When he found the lintel and climbed over it into a slot in the stone, the wind's decrease seemed a miracle.

To have light as well, was close to paradise. Even when the hissing fitful flame of the lantern showed Moffitt and Tully with their weapons unslung, facing Dietrich and one of his goons.

Troy needed a mouthful of water to clear his throat, before he could cough out, "Another standoff, Hauptmann."

"For once you are not the most imminent threat to my command," Dietrich said. "I suggest a truce until the end of the storm."

"Right."

Dietrich made a quick explanation to the other German. Moffitt didn't react, so Troy knew nothing underhand was discussed.

The Germans backed toward one wall of the chamber. The Rat Patrol took the other. Images dodged in and out of shadow as the lantern flickered, a sculpted frieze with flakes of red and yellow paint still clinging to it.

"What is this place?" he asked Moffitt. "Another Roman tomb?"

"Greek, not Roman. Second century B.C. A temple of Bucephalus. My father and I spent close to a year searching for it, before the war. The entrance must have been under the sand at that time. It's amazingly well-preserved. I hope to have time to make a few notes . . . ."

"You led us on a mad rush to some place you'd never been able to find before? What if it was still buried?"

"We'd die." Moffitt shrugged. "As the only possible shelter, it seemed worth trying for."

"You have a point."

"We may as well doss down. Shall I take the first watch?"

"Go ahead."

Dietrich had rolled himself into a bedroll, leaving the soldier on guard. Pragmatically Troy, Tully and Hitch settled to rest while they could. Moffitt stood guard, refusing to be distracted by the fragments of fresco or the muttering of his German counterpart.

The screams brought them all awake, with the pulse-pounding alertness only madness elicits. Even the Hauptmann had his Luger drawn. His goon lurched toward the entrance as Dietrich shouted at him.

The soldier shouted back and broke into a run. He threw himself out into the dark, and the wind went on howling. Hitch took a step after him.

"Should we try . . . ?"

Moffitt shook his head.

"If the fall didn't kill him, the sand did."

"Nothing we can do. I'll take the watch. Get some sleep," Troy ordered.

"After that? Not likely," Hitch muttered.

He lay down again anyway. Troy caught Moffitt's attention.

"What was all that shouting about?"

"The Hauptmann told him to sit down and stop his damned noise. The private said, he wouldn't let it have him."

"It?"

"The beast, or maybe he meant monster. He heard voices calling to him, wanting to make him one of them."

Troy scowled out at the dark.

"Easy enough to hear voices in that wind. How long is the storm going to last?"

"Could be a few hours. Could be a few days."

"Take a break, then. I doubt Dietrich will try anything . . . before there's a way out."

It was very easy to hear voices. Easy to hear a distant, remorseless song. The lantern flickered. Odd patches of dark drifted through the temple hall. Troy saw Dietrich staring. He tried to lift his weapon for a warning. He couldn't move.

The darkness gathered. Bad air. Hazard of caves and buried places. Had to move, wake the others . . . .

Dietrich slumped to the side. Raging against his failure, guessing that none of them would wake again, Troy did too.


	2. Chapter 2

He wouldn't have slept. Not when he had the watch. Troy lurched to his feet, making more noise than he was used to, and looked to see what damage Dietrich had done.

He had slept on duty. He had to be sleeping now. The sprawl of limbs on the far side of the temple was no part of reality. It was a figure from a dream, half man (and the man, in his uniform jacket, was definitely Dietrich) and half horse.

Troy looked for his men, and found the same transformation. Moffitt sprawled on his side, looking as if he'd been struck down. Grey flanks heaved as if he gasped in a nightmare. By the wall Tully nodded over folded forelegs, his rifle against his shoulder. Hitch lay by the same wall, farther from the entrance, lying across his forelegs with his head pillowed on his arms.

Without additional surprise, Troy confirmed his own excess of legs. He pinched his arm. It didn't alter the situation.

"No."

Moffitt rolled onto his legs and then scrambled upright. His eyes were wide. Sweat darkened patches of his barrel.

"Easy. It's a bad dream. We'll wake up soon."

"Gods! I dreamt . . . we all died in the sand." He looked around. "Ah. Curiouser and curiouser. Better than the last dream, certainly."

Hitch sat up . . . or raised his torso to a right angle with his barrel. The dream required some elasticity of wording. He yawned, and scratched his hip.

At that point he discovered the change. He clattered to his hooves. Both hands went to the juncture of torso and barrel, patting between his forelegs. He wobbled like a newborn foal.

"Don't worry," Troy started.

He meant to explain it was all a dream, but the boy wasn't listening.

"Sarge," he croaked. "Sarge, shoot me. I lost my tackle."

Troy heard a snort. When he looked around, Moffitt was poker-faced.

"Look farther back," the Brit advised.

Instantly Hitch curled down to stare between his forelegs. He whistled. When he straightened up his face was red, but he was grinning.

Troy found himself shifting his feet. Hooves. Whatever. He was not going to look . . . .

(And . . . . I have no idea what happens next. Do they re-join the war? A troop of cavalry doesn't seem very useful. Do they find themselves, on account of over-inquisitive scientists, fugitive from both sides? I have vague ideas of introducing a refugee School for Young Ladies that sought refuge in the same tomb, and setting up a herd somewhere in the Caspians . . . .)

(This is a crossover of sorts, with the Encyclopedia of Horse Breeds i bought for my horse-mad niece. For those who might be interested:

Hans Dietrich: liver chesnut with flaxen tail. Noriker (origin is Austrian. developed from heavy warhorse. incredible toughness. survive extremely harsh weather without shelter, surefooted light draft, excellent temperament, willing attitude. low set tail, strong legs, feathering at pasterns, hard hooves. excellent forward going stride, especially at trot. 15.2-17 hands high.)

Hitch: palomino with light tail. American Saddlebred/Kentucky Saddler. (willing, calm and energetic, with good stamina and endurance. great presence and spirit, with extravagant action. five-gaited [walk, trot, canter, slow gait and rack]. stands with front thrust forward and straight-hocked behind. legs slender and long with well-defined tendons and sloping pasterns. 15-16 hands.)

Moffitt: grey with darker tail and legs. Anglo-Arab (stamina and toughness of an Arab, natural athlete with great jumping ability and speed. feet hard. 15.2-16.3 hands high.)

Tully: chesnut pinto. Missouri Fox Trotter (gaited fox trot [walks in front, sliding trot in back] is a smooth and comfortable stride. great endurance and stamina, resisting fatigue better than most other breeds. can go long distances at 7mph, and 10mph for shorter distances. tail bobbing. also 4-beat walk (where hind feet overtake fore) and smooth canter. "The paces of the Fox Trotter do not include the flashy, extravagant, high-stepping style of the Saddlebred" but, "an excellent temperament, being quiet, amenable, intelligent and energetic when required.")

Troy: mahogany bay with dark points. Morgan ("Incredibly strong with great stamina, bravery and intelligence." 14.2-15.2 hands high. "Strong, brave and versatile." The original was, "unbeaten in saddle and harness races and in weight-pulling contests [and] worked extremely hard throughout his life.")


End file.
